


steady as the stars in the woods

by tobeconvincedoflove



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sick Enjolras, Sickfic, Theater AU, combeferre deserves a raise, e and r are so cute, this is a massive sickfic, this is self indulgent i am sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 06:28:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11753985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobeconvincedoflove/pseuds/tobeconvincedoflove
Summary: The week they open, Enjolras is sick. Things quickly go downhill from there.





	steady as the stars in the woods

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, friends. Please enjoy this 10k sickfic. There's no major warnings, for once. Many, many thanks to Caitlyn (screwsfallout @ ao3, fevers-and-flus @ tumblr) for brainstorming this, and always willing to give it a quick look!

“Fifteen minutes until fight call.” Bahorel’s voice floats over the god mic, and Enjolras reflexively shoots out a “thank you, fifteen” to otherwise unoccupied dressing room. 

He can feel a headache blooming at his temples, his muscles ache, and he’s been coughing on and off all day. He brushes it off as part of the slow crawl until opening; tech week and then three weeks of previews, and another week after they’ve (mostly) frozen the show for the press. But they open on Thursday night… that’s only five more shows. And two more until they have a day off.

“You look exhausted,” Grantaire says, leaning against Enjolras’s door with two mugs in his hands. “Here.” 

“Coffee?” Enjolras asks, hoping it doesn’t come out nearly as overly excited as he thinks it did. Grantaire snorts, so he guesses it did.

“Tea. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’re sniffling and coughing. I’m just trying to avoid a repeat of the Hamlet Stomach Flu Debacle of 2015,” Grantaire comments.

“I made it through the show, didn’t I?” Enjolras tries not to think about how good the tea feels going down his throat, or how Grantaire’s muscles stand out in just the right way when he’s just standing there. Now isn’t the time for either of those things. 

“Yeah. And then you went straight to the ER for dehydration and an insanely high fever,” Grantaire reminds him. “Just drink the fucking tea. Maybe use your steamer, too? If you don’t, I’m not convinced Courfeyrac isn’t going to murder me during fight call.” 

Enjolras just takes a sip. “I’m fine. Everyone’s tired; we haven’t had a day off in weeks.” Grantaire gives him the kind of look that has Enjolras’s heart fighting against his ribcage, but he moves to take over Enjolras’s couch. 

“Not everyone is simultaneously making changes in the book and taking dozens of new notes each day,” Grantaire reminds him. “Just… be careful. Courfeyrac is already threatening to throw out all of your coffee.” 

“If he does that, I’m moving out,” Enjolras says darkly, but he leans back in his chair. Now that Grantaire is looking, he can see why Courfeyrac is so concerned; can see the dark circles under Enjolras’s eyes, how he squints like the lights are too bright. 

“Why do I feel like that’s never going to happen,” Grantaire says easily, beginning to rifle Enjolras’s snack basket. Even though it’s only previews, the small crowd of people dedicated enough to wait through Courfeyrac’s notes have, quite frankly, lavished Enjolras with gifts. And because of an unfortunate instagram story from Courfeyrac, they all know that Enjolras is addicted to chocolate-covered raisins, white cheddar cheez-its, and every flavor of Crystal Light under the sun. Two days later, someone sent him four cases of water bottles to go with the Crystal Light. 

“Can you not eat all my food?” Enjolras asks, but Grantaire just shoots him a cheeky grin.

“Please. There’s no way you could eat this much before the bounty of opening comes rolling in,” he scoffs, but Cosette happens to poke her head in at that exact time.

“You weren’t with Enjolras for Great Comet at the Rep. I swear to god he ate a family-sized box of cheez-its every day,” she says, flicking her dark hair over her shoulder. “You seen Ep?” Neither of them have seen the set designer in a few days, and Cosette just sighs before leaving. 

“So you’re secretly an eating champion. How did I not know this? This what… our sixth? Fifth? Show together...” 

“Sixth. Millie Revival, American Idiot, Julius Caesar, Hamlet, Tick, Tick… Boom!, and now this,” Enjolras lists off easily. “I mean, Hamlet was a rough time for my grocery bill, too. Caesar, too, and American Idiot, now that I think about it. If I had to rank, though, it would be Hamlet then Great Comet.” 

“You know what else overlaps with us being in the same show? You almost dying. So let’s try not to add this one to that list.” 

Enjolras takes that time to cough into his shoulder. “That’s not fair. It’s not like I passed out on stage.” 

“Anything that causes the great Titan to miss more than one show is a big deal,” Grantaire points out. “So just… please just _listen_ for once, if Joly tells you to take it easy.” 

“I do listen,” Enjolras argues, and he can tell Grantaire is about to counter, but Bahorel’s voice is suddenly there.

“That’s five, fight folks. Five,” Bahorel says over god mic. 

“Enjolras, did you drink the tea?” 

Fuck. Courfeyrac stole the god mic. This isn’t good.

:: ::

When Enjolras stumbles into the apartment, Courfeyrac and Combeferre are already there.

“How was stagedoor?” Courfeyrac asks, dropping his piles of notes and approaching Enjolras. 

“Good. People… people are sharing their own stories, after seeing the show,” Enjolras says, dropping his bag. “It… it’s a lot.” 

“You look fucking exhausted,” Combeferre comments, not even bothering to look up from where he’s scribbling at the piano. “Eat something and go to sleep. And take some cold medicine.” 

“I’m not sick,” Enjolras protests, but Courfeyrac is already leading him to the breakfast bar. 

“As your director and best friend, I’ve got a double duty here, Enj. So drink the tea, take some medicine, and get some rest. Maybe skip the stage door tomorrow?” He rests a hand against Enjolras’s cheek. “You’re a little warm.”

“If you call Joly, I’m moving out,” Enjolras threatens. 

“That’s the third time this month you’ve threatened to move out,” Combeferre inputs mildly. 

“I’m serious this time.” Enjolras frowns. Suddenly, there’s a plate of food in front of him, and a mug of tea, still steaming. He has no idea how Courfeyrac managed to do that so quickly. Even he has to admit that the steam feels good on his throat as he takes a deep breath before a sip. “Fuck you, this is some herbal blend.”

“Drink it, or I’ll call Joly right now. Or let it slip to the internet that you _love_ herbal tea.” Courfeyrac’s voice is so deadly that Enjolras can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.” 

There’s five seconds of staring, before Enjolras finally gives in and takes another drink from the mug. Satisfied, Courfeyrac heads back to the mess of their living room. 

“Eat. Then go to bed. I’m serious, Enjolras.” Courfeyrac is using his “this is an important note don’t forget it” voice, and Enjolras looks properly cowed. It probably helps that he’s exhausted; it’s one of those shows that takes all of Enjolras’s physical and emotional energy every time. 

“I was going to do that anyways,” Enjolras mumbles. His throat feels rough, his muscles ache to the core, but he pushes it down. 

He’s got to get through opening night.

:: ::

“He doesn’t look good,” Courfeyrac says, standing at the edge of Enjolras’s room. “I’m worried.”

“Send him to Joly. It’s better he misses a day now than at the end of the week, when the Times is coming,” Combeferre says, frowning at Enjolras’s coloring. 

“You know he’s not going to call out until we open. We haven’t even had an understudy rehearsal, Combeferre.” Courfeyrac frowns. “The Times is coming Wednesday, night before opening. Maybe this will all blow over by then.” 

“It’s Enjolras. That isn’t likely.” Combeferre says, frowning. “I’m living in the pit tomorrow, and I know you’re busy as hell, but I don’t want… someone should keep an eye on him today.” 

“I could ask Grantaire,” Courfeyrac says. “He seems pretty concerned, and his call is the same time as Enjolras.” 

“You hid the coffee, right?” When Courfeyrac gives him a devious smile, Combeferre knows the answer. “Good. I went to CVS last night, practically bought out their flu section.” 

“We’ve dealt with this before. It’s going to be fine. It’s going to be more than fine; we’re finally opening this thing on Broadway. Remember when Enjolras first pitched it?” Courfeyrac says, slipping back into the hallway. 

“It was at 3 a.m., the second he finished his first draft of the book. How he had time to write it, with everything else he was doing, I have no fucking clue.” Combeferre smiles a little at the memory. 

“And you started orchestrations at 5 a.m. that same day.” Courfeyrac hands Combeferre a travel mug, slinging his bag over his shoulder. Combeferre just leans in and plants a kiss on his boyfriend’s cheek. 

“And now we have to be at the theater at eight in the morning to go over notes before the cast gets there for rehearsal. Enjolras isn’t called until afternoon today. Because you have that power.” They’re out the door quickly, as Courfeyrac quickly calls an Uber. 

“Yeah. He’s got the thing with Variety at ten, and we’re only rehearsing the second act fight this afternoon. The rest is pretty much frozen,” Courfeyrac explains. “It’ll give his voice a rest. I’m worried, that if this gets worse, that he’s going to push his voice past what it can take. The second act aria, it’s hard for him in isolation. In the context of the show…”

“Everything is going to be okay. Grantaire will keep an eye on him, and you wrote him a note to call Joly, right? We’ve got this under control.” 

Courfeyrac isn’t convinced. So 

He still remembers that _Thoroughly Modern Millie_ revival pneumonia incident.

:: ::

When Enjolras gets to his dressing room, all he really wants is a nap. He’d woken up that morning to a throat lined with razors, a head that was somehow both throbbing and spinning, uncooperative muscles, and the sense that he was going to be cold no matter how many layers he put on. And then he found out that Courfeyrac had gotten rid of all of the coffee in the apartment.

He had briefly contemplated murder after that. 

Instead, he had downed as much Dayquil as he could without that voice at the back of his head (that sounded mysteriously like Joly) told him to stop, put on the interview clothing Courfeyrac had laid out for him, and tried to make it look like he didn’t feel like dying. 

He ignores the note to call Joly, because he knows Joly will tell him not to perform. Courfeyrac hasn’t said anything, but Enjolras knows they need good reviews to stay open, and Enjolras knows the press are expecting _him_. But he texts Courfeyrac saying that Joly says everything is okay, ignoring the guilt in his stomach. He can’t have Courfeyrac as a friend making a call that will hurt Courfeyrac as a director. Not because Enjolras feels slightly under the weather. 

He has one hour before fight call, and while he knows he needs to steam and do hair and makeup and get into costume and get in the right headspace for this character, he’s exhausted. 

And he can’t seem to stop coughing. 

“You sound fucking awful,” Grantaire comments, already in full costume. This time, he only has one mug of tea, but he just sets it down in front of Enjolras. “Don’t worry, it’s not herbal.” 

“Just tired. But I don’t think I have time for a nap today.” Enjolras can’t help but scrunch his nose just a little, and Grantaire flops down onto Enjolras’s couch. 

“Just use the fucking steamer, okay?” Grantaire says, opening a box of chocolate-covered raisins. Enjolras practically growls at him, but he just smiles as he pops one into his mouth. 

He uses the steamer, but Grantaire can’t help but hear how much harder Enjolras has to work as he goes through his warm-ups, simultaneously taming his hair and covering the dark circles under his eyes. By the time he’s ready, he’s got about ten minutes before fight call.

“If you don’t vacate my couch I will force you to vacate it.” His voice is deadly, but Grantaire doesn’t budge an inch. In response, Enjolras lies down on top of Grantaire. 

And the best revenge Grantaire can think of is in the form of an instagram story. Enjolras exclusively uses twitter, but his friends tend to share their stories on twitter, anyways, so he usually ends up seeing moments he had no idea were filmed. Including this one, with Enjolras out cold in Grantaire’s lap, Grantaire absentmindedly playing with his hair and eating his food. 

“Shhh… don’t wake him up,” he tells the camera. “I have so much more of his food to eat before then.” For the next seven minutes, he reads comments, responds to the sassiest, until one floats across that just says: Enjolras looks sick… is he okay? 

Enjolras is going to kill him, but Grantaire responds to that one. (He’s got a little bit of a cold. This show has been brought to you by Vicks, tea, and a catnap.) After that, someone asks him for Enjolras’s favorite brand and flavor of tea, and Grantaire knows exactly what he does when he responds to that one. 

Too soon, Bahorel’s telling them that there’s one minute until fight call, and Grantaire gently shakes Enjolras awake.

“Time to do this?” Enjolras asks, blinking a little. His voice sounds wrecked, and Grantaire frowns a little. 

“Drink some more tea, princess. Wouldn’t want you to crack on the high notes, now would we?” 

It’s a challenge, and Lord knows Enjolras is incapable of backing down from one of those.

:: ::

Grantaire has no idea how Enjolras manages to do the show. He’s standing in the wings, watching Enjolras’s second act aria, and even though he’s watched him do this role for so long, but never like this. There’s magic, because Grantaire can truly believe that Enjolras has broken down, can believe that he’s so tired of fighting that he’s ready to give up.

And he gets back up. 

It’s magic, and when it’s over, Grantaire loses Enjolras in the chaos of post-show duties and rushing to be ready for notes. But when he stops at Enjolras’s dressing room on the way back down, E is passed out on the couch. He’s wearing leggings and a baggy sweatshirt, hair thrown up into a messy bun and face pressed into the cushions. 

Grantaire knows he should wake him up for notes, but then Enjolras coughs in his sleep. It’s worryingly deep, sounds like it’s coming straight from the bottom of his lungs, and Grantaire wonders when this all started. He knows it’s earlier than yesterday, because he has no idea how long he had managed to conceal it. 

“Don’t wake him up for notes.” Combeferre’s voice comes from directly behind Grantaire. “We’ve moved the team meeting to our apartment so we can get him home, and Courfeyrac can give him his notes tomorrow, anyways.” 

“Has he talked to Joly? He’s been warm all day,” Grantaire says. “You know he’s going to be pissed that he missed notes.”

“I don’t care. He’s sick, and tomorrow the Times is coming. He needs rest more than his pride,” Combeferre decides, stepping out of the frame of the room. “He said that Joly said it’s fine, just to rest his voice between shows and drink fluids and all that jazz.” 

“Your call, man. I gotta head to notes, but I’ll be around all day tomorrow, should he choose to show up ungodly early,” Grantaire says, but he lingers for a moment. “I really hope he feels better tomorrow.” 

“Somehow, I doubt it. If you stagedoor, could you pass along that Enjolras isn’t going to today?” Combeferre pinches the bridge of his nose, and Grantaire just nods, before practically running down to the stage. 

Combeferre takes a seat, shuts the door, and turns down the lights. He has his own notes to go through, his own notes to give, but that can wait. 

Forty minutes later, Courfeyrac texts Combeferre that they’re done and he’s on his way up. So Combeferre throws Enjolras’s things into a bag, before approaching the blond. He gently shakes his friend’s shoulder, and after a few seconds Enjolras’s eyes blink open.

“Fuck, I’m gonna be late--” he mumbles, bolting into a sitting position. Immediately, he doubles over, coughing and coughing and barely managing to get any air in. Combeferre’s hand is at his back, and he traces soothing circles across Enjolras’s back even after it’s finally over.

“Courfeyrac just finished notes. He’s going to grab his stuff and then we’re heading back,” he says, but Enjolras just puts his head in his hands.

“I can’t believe I slept through them. It’s my job to be there,” Enjolras says, and his shoulders are so slumped and he looks so miserable that Combeferre can’t help but lean his friend against him. But when he does, he frowns. Enjolras is radiating heat. 

“I’m pretty sure the rest of the company would rather have you resting when you’re this ill than be at notes with them.” It’s not exactly what Enjolras said, but Combeferre knows his friend; he is committed to the company no matter what role he’s in, and he doesn’t want to be one of _those_ leading actors. 

“Fuck,” is all Enjolras says, rubbing at his temples. It’s at that moment that Courfeyrac appears, and he presses a full nalgene into Enjolras’s hands.

“Drink all of this before we get home,” he orders. “I’ll make you some tea when we get there.” 

Over the course of Courfeyrac calling a Lyft, Enjolras chugs the entire water bottle, and it grounds him enough that he can get out of the theater and into the car. 

But once he’s there, face pressed against the cool window, Enjolras finds it too easy to let Courfeyrac’s constant stream of words lull him back to sleep.

:: ::

Enjolras wakes up, some time later. He’s in his bed, and he has no recollection of getting there (the truth of the matter is that Combeferre didn’t have the heart to wake him up), but his mind can’t follow that thread any more because reality slams back into Enjolras and he realizes that he feels _awful_. His chest is tight and burning, his head is pounding and throbbing and spinning at the same time, and his throat feels like Bahorel’s demon cat has taken her claws to it.

It’s a journey to even sit up, a full-on, god-ordained quest to use walls and furniture to stumble back into the living room. But he barely gets into the door frame before Courfeyrac is there, guiding him to the kitchen. 

“Didn’t think you would wake up. Come on, I’ll make some tea. We’re almost done here, anyway,” he says, and for the first time Enjolras realizes that there are people in the apartment. 

 

“Sorry. Don’t want to interrupt,” he croaks out, rubbing at his eyes a little. 

“Jesus, Enjolras. Take some fucking medicine.” That’s Bahorel, and Enjolras manages to flip him off as Courfeyrac presses him down into a chair. 

“You’re sure that there’s nothing Joly can give you?” Courfeyrac asks, as Enjolras doubles over to cough. 

“Yeah, he said it was viral or something,” Enjolras says hoarsely. “Don’t stop the meeting on my account.” 

“You look like shit.” That’s Feuilly, but he’s up in an instant, pressing his hand against his friend’s forehead, frowning. “Move over. You make terrible tea, Courfeyrac.” But he shares a look with Combeferre, and Enjolras hates when they do this. They act like he isn’t even there. 

But he’s too tired to fight them, and he doesn’t want to take time away from their meeting. He drinks the tea Feuilly makes, takes the medicine Combeferre gives him, and he rests his head on the table as they wrap up the meeting and slowly file out. Feuilly lingers.

“Courfeyrac, the Times comes tomorrow. Is he… is he going to be okay to perform?” There’s a lot that Feuilly doesn’t say--that they need a good review, that it’s Brantley who’s coming, that he’s going to be expecting Enjolras. 

“I don’t know. We’ll see how he’s feeling tomorrow morning,” is all Courfeyrac can say. Feuilly just frowns. 

“Let me know if you need anything, okay?” But then Feuilly leaves, too, and when Courfeyrac turns around, Combeferre has a thermometer between Enjolras’s lips and his forehead is creased in a way he hasn’t seen since they froze the show. 

“It’s at 102. The Tylenol should have kicked in by now…” Combeferre says with a frown. “How are you feeling, Enjolras, really?”

“I’m just tired, ‘Ferre. I’ll be fine tomorrow,” Enjolras tries, but his chest chooses that moment to spasm and he’s coughing, each breath scraping his throat and lungs on the way in. Combeferre’s hand is at Enjolras’s back, and when it’s finally over, he takes a few stuttering breaths. 

“That didn’t sound too good, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says, eyes wide. 

“I’ll be fine. I’m just going to go to bed now,” he says, standing up shakily. He stumbles almost instantly, and any hopes Courfeyrac had disappear. He takes one side of Enjolras as Combeferre takes the other, and though Enjolras grumbles, he doesn’t shake them off.

He’s asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

:: ::

Enjolras wakes up to the feeling of someone’s hands on his throat. His eyes blink open, and everything is fuzzy. Until Joly’s face clears above him, and then everything comes back. Somehow, Enjolras feels worse than last night; his limbs are heavy, he’s exhausted, and everything is cold and his chest feels small and shallow and _wrong_.

“What’s going on?” he gets out, but Joly just shushes him. 

“Your glands are a little swollen, Enjolras,” he says, and as Enjolras presses a hand to his forehead he finds a cool cloth there. “You should have called me _days_ ago.”

When Enjolras sits up, everything spins just a little bit. “I’m fine, Joly.” 

“You’re not.” That’s not Joly, but Courfeyrac. “Jesus Christ Enjolras can you even walk straight.” Enjolras can hear the anger in his voice, and then it registers… Joly is there. They know he lied to them. 

“Oh, shit,” Enjolras mutters, slowly swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and standing up. He starts to walk towards the door, but the room spins and things go grey and before he registers anything again he’s back sitting on the bed, Combeferre at his side. 

“There’s no way you can go on tonight, Enjolras,” Combeferre says, a hand feeling his cheeks, his forehead. 

Immediately Enjolras’s head, previously leaning against Combeferre’s neck, snaps up. “It’s the Times. There’s no question.” But then he starts coughing, and if it weren’t for Combeferre’s hand on his back, Enjolras would have blacked out. 

“Are you having trouble breathing?” Courfeyrac asks, and Enjolras knows that if he plays his next cards carefully, he’s won. At least with Courfeyrac

“No,” Enjolras responds truthfully. He knows he’ll have to work harder to get the air he needs, but it wouldn’t be impossible. He knows how much they need a good review, and so does Courfeyrac. They’ve put too much into this to let it fail because of a small chest cold. “Courfeyrac, I promise I can do this.” 

“This isn’t a discussion, Enjolras,” Combeferre says, throwing his hands into the air. “You can barely stand. A review isn’t worth you hurting yourself.”

“It’s the _Times_. And I’ll be fine,” Enjolras says.

“How am I supposed to believe that? You lied to us about how you were doing for days, lied to us about calling Joly. Dammit, Enjolras, you couldn’t have thought I would want that, as your director _or_ as your best friend.” Shit, Courfeyrac is furious. And Enjolras feels so miserable, so tired, that he has to bite at his lip to not start crying. He can’t handle Courfeyrac being angry on top of it all.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras says, voice low and wrecked. Instantly, Courfeyrac’s voice softens, and then he’s on Enjolras’s other side. 

“Dammit, E, you probably need a chest x-ray and strong antibiotics and vocal rest. I know you feel terrible. Why are you fighting so hard to do this?” 

“Do you… do you remember when we used to go camping as kids? We’d spend so much time building forts out of rocks and branches, and then when we came back a few weekends later it would all be gone, knocked to pieces. We wouldn’t care because we could just build it all again. But I care about this, and I don’t want… I want this to stay.” Enjolras looks down at his hands, fidgeting a little. “I really love this show, Courfeyrac.” 

“Is there anything you can give him that would get him through tonight and tomorrow?” Courfeyrac asks Joly. 

“I really think--” Joly starts, but Courfeyrac shoots him a pleading look and he just sighs. “I could give him a steroid before the shows. But it’s not a cure for all ills, Enjolras. You really need rest and antibiotics and fluids.” 

“If Joly agrees to do this, there has to be ground rules,” Combeferre starts. “You have to listen to everything that Joly tells you to do, even if it includes not performing. You’re not stage dooring, and someone is going to be with you backstage in case this gets any worse.” There is not a millimeter of room for argument in Combeferre’s tone. 

“Okay,” Enjolras says, and he tunes out the rest of the conversation. He’s pretty sure Courfeyrac is shuffling call times and probably calling Grantaire to ask if he’ll babysit, and he thinks Joly leaves to go fill the relevant prescriptions. 

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says, snapping him out of whatever daze he’d fallen into, before he helps Enjolras to his feet. “Come on, let’s get some food and medicine into you.” 

“Not herbal,” Enjolras mutters. He lets Courfeyrac lead him to the counter, doesn’t protest when a hot mug of something that smells fruity is placed in front of him, and he takes a sip. It feels good going down his throat. 

“Joly just texted. He said to rest your voice when you’re not performing.” That’s Combeferre, resting a hand against Enjolras’s forehead and handing him a few pills and a dose of cough syrup. Enjolras wrinkles his nose, but he’s too miserable to argue, so he just knocks it all back. “I’ll check your temp again once the Tylenol kicks in a little.” 

Enjolras just kind of zones, sipping at the warm tea and managing most of the oatmeal Courfeyrac makes, too, until it’s time to go to the theater. 

As soon as they step out of the lyft, Combeferre’s grip on his arm tight, Grantaire is waiting. “You look like shit.” 

“Thanks. Why are you here so early?” Enjolras asks, as they all trek to Enjolras’s dressing room.

“Wanted some extra time to really get in the right headspace for this one. With the Times and all,” Grantaire replies, shrugging. As soon as Courfeyrac is assured that, yes, Joly is there, and yes, Grantaire is there, he goes to do all of the director things he needs to do before the show. 

“All right, Enjolras,” Joly says, before he explains how often to take the antibiotic and about the steroid and how it’s strictly one dose per twenty-four hour. Then he makes quick work of injecting Enjolras, before he retreats to the couch to observe as Enjolras gets ready for the last preview, before Courfeyrac ushers Joly to the audience to spy on the critic. 

Grantaire doesn’t see him until places. 

It’s amazing, the change in Enjolras. He’s more awake, more alive, than he’s been all week, and Grantaire marvels at how he managed to even get this far. It’s easy to pretend, with makeup covering the dark circles and brightening his pale skin, that he’s okay, almost possible to believe Enjolras is okay when he steps on stage, his character prepared to blaze the world to the ground.

Grantaire always believes when Enjolras is on stage, but tonight is _new_. It’s like he’s seeing the show for the first time, or a different show entirely. Enjolras isn’t just perfect, Combeferre’s intricate, difficult melodies flowing out seemingly effortlessly, but he is devastating. He works with such emotional intelligence, delivers every action and word with such clarity that it’s hard to believe that this character isn’t Enjolras. 

Grantaire knows that the second act is going to hurt, if the first act is this poignant. The second act is always draining to perform, challenging to watch, and Grantaire can’t fucking wait. 

The best part, though, is that everything feels normal at intermission. Enjolras isn’t coughing up a lung, with barely enough energy to walk back to his dressing room; when Grantaire wanders into Enjolras’s room, he’s eating out of a family-sized bag of chocolate covered raisins, so Grantaire of course puts it on his instagram story.

And the second act passes in a blur. Grantaire is struggling to match with Enjolras, challenged to step up, and as Grantaire watches Enjolras sing his second act aria, the penultimate song, he hopes to god (for once) that one of the (possibly crying) faces in the audience is recording this. 

Then it’s the finale and Grantaire is holding Enjolras’s hand during bows and it goes black. Enjolras has the energy to change quickly and, then, because he honestly feels great, he takes his time at the stagedoor. 

By the time notes are over, though, the spell has worn off. Enjolras is leaning against Grantaire, more than half-asleep, occasionally letting out deep coughs into his friend’s shoulders. Grantaire just wraps an arm around him, and he feels Enjolras practically nuzzle into him. 

“Any read on Brantley?” That’s an ensemble member, and immediately, Enjolras stiffens against Grantaire. 

“Our source in the audience indicates that he was smiling, or as much as Brantley can smile,” Courfeyrac says. “All right. That’s it for notes. Everyone get some rest… we open tomorrow.” And then everyone is peeling themselves off the floor, grouping up to Uber or walk to the subway. 

“All right. Let’s get you home before you fall asleep on the stage,” that’s Courfeyrac, shifting Enjolras’s wait onto himself, to give Grantaire a chance to go home. 

Enjolras just lets everything blur.

:: ::

“Enjolras, we did rehearse Ryan this morning. You don’t have to go on tonight,” Courfeyrac says, as Enjolras tries to breathe, feeling suffocated by the overcrowding in his dressing room.

“Just give me the shot. I’m gonna be okay. It’s _opening night_... there’s no way that I’m not going on.” Enjolras’s voice is wrecked, hoarse and pained from a night of coughing and straining to hit every note for the performance last night. 

“Jesus, Enjolras, the steroid isn’t a panacea,” Joly says. “Your fever is pretty high, even on prescription-strength fever reducers, and you can’t tell me you think you’re okay to sing.” 

“I can do it. I’ll call out for tomorrow, do full vocal rest and whatever else you want, but I am going on tonight,” Enjolras debates, and Joly clucks at the straining in his friend’s voice. 

“I’ll give you the shot, but the second you start to feel worse you tell someone to get me. I mean it; I honestly want to take you for a chest x-ray tonight, because I have a bad feeling you’ve got pneumonia again.” Joly says, and Courfeyrac steels himself.

“You should go to the party tonight. It can wait until tomorrow morning,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire just throws his hands up in the air.

“Jesus, Enjolras, do you not give a fuck about your own health?” Grantaire exclaims. Enjolras opens his mouth, but he closes it when he sees the dangerous edge in his eyes. “I can’t… I don’t know if I can watch you hurt yourself like this.” 

But then Enjolras takes his hand, and there’s that look in his eyes that they don’t discuss. It happens sometimes, when they’re on stage, in that scene where there’s a thick wall between their characters, each brick a different moment when what should be almost was; Enjolras’s eyes change, and it’s not his character, anymore. It’s that impossibly soft look that gives Grantaire hope that maybe someday what should be will just _be_.

“Just one more show, R. I can get through,” Enjolras says, and then people start filing out. Joly injects Enjolras and then Grantaire helps him with his makeup, using the old argument about Enjolras’s inability to fill in his eyebrows correctly instead of commenting that Enjolras’s hands are shaking.

The first act goes smoothly, and Grantaire thinks they might just get through one more performance. But he can tell the shot is already wearing off, can tell in the how much effort it takes for Enjolras to give this performance, and when the blackout comes, Enjolras is barely offstage before he’s doubling over, coughing harshly. 

“Fuck…” he gets out, and then Grantaire’s heart is pounding in his ears and he yells for Bahorel to get Joly from the house, before practically carrying Enjolras back to his dressing room.

It’s opening night. They’re supposed to be hopped up on adrenaline, excited for free booze and a party with their friends and family and cast, already dreading the hangover just a little bit. But Enjolras is struggling, and none of that matters, anymore. It has to be about getting him through this.

Cast members are poking their heads in, leaving a thermometer and a cold cloth and asking if they can help, and Enjolras just sits there with his head in his hands. His chest is briefly filled with warmth, because he loves this group of people, is so proud of what they’ve created together, but it’s too much on top of his pounding head and aching chest and it is hard to breathe why is it so hard to breathe?

And then Joly is kneeling in front of him, speaking too quickly for Enjolras to fully comprehend. His hand feels cool against Enjolras’s forehead, and everything clears just a bit.

“Fuck, I need another one of those shots,” Enjolras mutters.

“Absolutely not. I can’t give you more than one dose in twenty-four hours,” Joly says. “Here.” And then he sticks a thermometer under Enjolras’s tongue, and when it beeps he snatches it back. “Jesus Christ, Enjolras. You can’t tell me that you’re well enough to go back out there.”

“Second act is shorter,” Enjolras argues, but he accepts the water bottle Joly shoves into his hand, watching as he downs most of it. Joly goes to feel his glands, but that’s when Bahorel’s voice floats over the god mic, calling places.

“Thank you, places,” Enjolras mutters, before he’s back on his feet and leaving. 

“Grantaire, if it looks like he’s going to drop get him off the fucking stage. I’m not kidding,” Joly says, running a hand through his hair. “I should get back into the house, but I’m--” Joly takes a moment to compose himself. “Everything is going to be okay. It’s going to be fine.” 

Grantaire knows he’s not going to have to act for the rest of the show. He is truly, completely, utterly terrified for Enjolras in this moment.

:: ::

Grantaire cries in the wings during Enjolras’s solo. He fucking cries, because against all odds, Enjolras is out there singing and standing when no one in the audience (or cast, for that matter) believed he could get back up.

But then it’s bows, and Enjolras’s hand is radiating heat in his own, and Courfeyrac gives a speech. The curtain falls.

So does Enjolras. 

Grantaire just scoops Enjolras up, manhandles him out of his costume and into his day clothes (he completely fucking ignores the opening night suit hanging up), wipes off his make-up. He pulls Enjolras’s sweaty hair away from his face into the best bun he can manage, and sits him on the couch. Enjolras then does his best impression of an octopus, and in thirty seconds he’s half-asleep, limbs tangled around Grantaire. By the time that’s done Courfeyrac and Combeferre and Joly are there. Joly wastes no time in taking Enjolras’s temperature, listening to his lungs, before he feels his glands.

“Shit, these are bad, Enjolras,” he says, before he looks at Courfeyrac. “He needs full vocal rest for at least a few days,” he says, and Courfeyrac just nods. His hands fidget. 

“Yeah. I told Ryan he’s going on for at least the next three days,” he says. “Is it bad?”

“It’s not good. I’ll take him for a chest x-ray first thing tomorrow morning, and I think… he shouldn’t be alone tonight, in case things take a turn for the worse,” Joly says, and Combeferre frowns. 

“Will you come home with us?” Combeferre asks. “I don’t want to ask you to skip the party, but--”

“No, no. I was going to ask if I could, anyway,” Joly says, but Enjolras bolts upright as best as he can, Grantaire’s arms pretty much holding him still. 

“You can’t miss the party,” Enjolras says, but Joly throws him a look that has Enjolras silent. 

“You’re not allowed to speak, unless you just want to prolong the amount of time you’re out,” he says, and Enjolras frowns, scrambling for his phone. “And this isn’t a discussion, so whatever rant you were typing out, you can stop.” 

“It’s OPENING,” is what Enjolras shows Joly, then Courfeyrac. 

“And you’re really sick, so it doesn’t matter.” Courfeyrac sits on Enjolras’s other side, rubbing his friend’s back. 

“You have to go. And R. And Ferre. There’s press,” Enjolras types, but then Courfeyrac has to grab his phone because Enjolras is coughing. There’s a look that passes between Grantaire and Combeferre and Joly, and a decision is made. When Enjolras finally stops coughing, he leans against Courfeyrac. 

“This is what the plan is. Combeferre and I are going to take you home, and Courfeyrac and Grantaire will take care of things with the press,” Joly says, and Enjolras just closes his eyes. Until they shoot up, pointing to the Times app on his phone. 

“Fuck, lemme check,” Courfeyrac says, hastily pulling out his own phone and checking. “Fuck, it’s out. Let me read it.” 

Before Grantaire can think, he’s got Enjolras’s hand tightly in his own. It’s dead silent in the room, save for Enjolras’s labored breathing, and everything terrible is running through his head; Brantley hated the show, hated _him_ , he’s never going to get a job again, oh my god what if he never gets to work with Enjolras again--

Courfeyrac lets out the breath he was holding. 

And then he smiles.

“ _Epoch_ is masterful, unapologetically honest and challenging in its portrayal of mental illness…” Courfeyrac pauses, taking a moment to look up at his friends and their joy. “Combeferre’s orchestrations are rich, complex and astoundingly full, Musichetta’s lighting design risky and innovative, and Courfeyrac proves once again his love for the intricate and his versatile directing capabilities. Okay, let me find acting…” 

All of a sudden, Enjolras tightens his hold on Grantaire’s hand. Grantaire squeezes back; he knows Brantley saw Enjolras’s brilliance. 

“Enjolras is as we’ve never seen him before: both devastating and devastatingly brilliant. He juggles the difficult melodies and complex character with ease, breathing life into the story he wrote. It is astounding, then, that Grantaire manages to shine just as brightly; this a role so different from any of his previous work, but his performance brings strength and softness and a feeling of peace that completes the work.” 

“See? I knew he was going to love you,” Grantaire whispers into Enjolras’s hair, his arms gently reaching around Enjolras. He’s shaking, and Grantaire thinks it’s the shock and excitement and exhaustion all at once. He jumped on board this project the minute Enjolras had asked him, had seen it through that shitty two-day run in the basement of some festival, had been there to edit the script and build this character and he loved every second of it.

And now other people will get to love it, too.

Enjolras looks up at Courfeyrac for the first time since he started reading, a small smile on his face. Courfeyrac looks at him, his eyes impossibly warm and brimming with tears. 

“You did it, Enjolras. You brought this story to Broadway,” he says, and when Enjolras shakes his head, Courfeyrac throws him a look. “But now I think it’s time to get you home to rest.” 

Grantaire squeezes Enjolras’s shoulder once, before standing up. “I should get ready, hang out at the stage door for a little bit before I go. I’ll tell them you’re not well. Feel better, Enjolras.” Courfeyrac follows them out, and Joly and Combeferre are immediately on either side. 

“People should be at the stage door by now. We can probably sneak out the front,” Joly mutters, fingers brushing against Enjolras’s cheek, wincing at the heat. “I’ll call a ride. Think you’re steady enough to make it to the car?” 

Enjolras nods, but the second he puts his full weight on his feet everything gets a little bit warmer in his head and he’s falling into Combeferre. 

“Okay, that’s a no. Come on, let’s get you home,” Combeferre says, before wrapping his arm around Enjolras’s waist. 

When Combeferre has to carry Enjolras up to the apartment because he falls asleep in the car again, he doesn’t mind. 

They get him on the couch, get some medicine in him, and Enjolras falls asleep the second Joly says it’s okay.

:: ::

Enjolras wakes up because he’s cold. Freezing, really, and he reaches his hand up to his forehead only to find an ice-cold cloth against his forehead. He reaches a clumsy hand to peel it off, but someone’s hand catches his. Enjolras blinks a little; his brain feels clouded, dull, unable to string a thought together.

And then he’s coughing. 

“Hey.” That’s Combeferre, pulling him gently into a sitting position, rubbing his back through the coughing fit. “Remember not to talk, okay?” What he says doesn’t really make sense, but Enjolras likes the way his voice sounds.

“Cold,” Enjolras mutters, and then there’s something being pressed between his lips. It beeps loudly, and Enjolras winces, and he looks to see what it is, but he just sees Joly frowning.

“It went up to 103, ‘Ferre,” Joly says. “We might not be able to wait until tomorrow morning.” 

“Jesus. Courfeyrac is on his way here, potentially with Grantaire. Can we wait? I don’t want them to get here and us to just be gone,” Combeferre says, voice saturated with worry. “Isn’t he due for more Tylenol, anyways?”

“Yeah, we can give him some more and see if it goes down in half an hour. If it doesn’t, though, we’re taking him in,” Joly says, and then he’s brushing Enjolras’s curls back. Enjolras leans into the warm touch, smiling a little. 

“I’m cold, Joly,” Enjolras gets out, and then Joly’s frowning, pulling the blanket off of Enjolras. “Hey. ‘S not fair.” 

“Rest your voice, okay? I know you feel cold, but that means your fever is rising,” Joly says, before he puts a glass in one of Enjolras’s shaking hands, two pills in the other. Enjolras first sips at the water, and it feels good going down his throat, and then he quickly downs the pills.

Then he just lets Combeferre lean him into him, lets him play with his hair. When Combeferre is confident that Enjolras has stopped listening to the conversation, is calm, he turns to Joly, his face creased.

“I really don’t want to take him tonight, if we can help it. He doesn’t do well in hospitals, and he needs rest more than anything,” he whispers, looking down at Enjolras’s half-lidded eyes. He looks truly miserable, and he lets out a groan at that moment.

“I don’t feel goo’, ‘Ferre,” he slurs. Then he’s coughing again, and Combeferre feels his heartbeat in his throat--he’s so fucking worried because Enjolras never talks this openly, never admits that something is wrong, but here he is sounding so tired and sad and Combeferre has no fucking clue what to do.

“It’s okay. Let the medicine kick in,” Combeferre whispers. “Get some rest.” He knows that vocal rest isn’t an option right now, not when Enjolras clearly isn’t tracking; he’d rather Enjolras be able to tell him how he’s feeling than worry about vocal rest. Honestly, Enjolras is going to be out for a few days regardless, so at least until he’s feeling a little better it doesn’t matter.

They sit there, waiting for Courfeyrac, waiting for the decision to stay or go. Combeferre pulls out his phone, as Enjolras burrows his face into Combeferre’s chest. 

“Looks like Grantaire found time to make his way onto Twitter,” Combeferre comments softly, laughing a little. “Someone asked why Enjolras wasn’t at the party, and he responded that E is really sick. There’s a coordinated plan to send a family sized jar of Vicks, Enjolras’s favorite tea brand, and Dayquil to the theater between the OP and two of her friends.” 

“S’ nice. R is nice,” Enjolras responds, and Combeferre snorts. 

“Got a little crush there?” Combeferre says, and Enjolras crinkles his nose. He doesn’t respond, though, and Combeferre lets him doze. He’s restless, faced almost permanently creased in discomfort, fidgeting, like he can’t find a position that’s comfortable. 

Courfeyrac and Grantaire enter quietly, assuming that Enjolras will be asleep. Instead, Joly pulls them into the kitchen quickly, and Enjolras tries to get up.

“Wanna tell R…” Enjolras gets out, frowning at Combeferre’s strong grip around his ribs. It _hurts_ , even when Enjolras relaxes, and Combeferre loosens his grip. “Why does it hurt?”

“What hurts?” There’s an edge to his voice that Enjolras knows should worry him, but he’s too busy focusing on breathing, because he doesn’t know why it hurts so much. 

“M’ ribs. S’ bad when I breathe,” Enjolras mumbles. There’s a lot of noise after that; Enjolras thinks Combeferre yells for Joly, knows someone his moving him so that he’s upright, that the same person isn’t letting him curl back in on himself. 

“Fuck. We’re taking him in now. His fever isn’t going down, and if it hurts to breathe…” That’s Joly, and then things start to move quickly, too quickly for Enjolras to follow. Someone is shoving shoes onto his feet, someone else hauling him to his feet. It’s Grantaire. 

“Hey,” Grantaire says, before he moves to Enjolras’s side. “Help me out here, Enj. Think you can walk?” 

Enjolras nods, but Grantaire is doing most of the work. Enjolras’s knees keep buckling, and if it weren’t for Grantaire’s strong hold on him he would have fallen down in the elevator a grand total of… seventeen? Scratch that, eighteen times. 

“Where’r we going?” Enjolras slurs, eyes blinking at the bright lights of the car. But Grantaire doesn’t answer, too busy handing him off (literally) to Courfeyrac to get him situated in the car as he takes the other side. Combeferre is in the back with Joly. “It… It hurts.” 

“I know, E. Just hold on for like twenty minutes, okay?” That’s Courfeyrac, and Enjolras leans his head against his shoulder. 

“It… breathing is hard,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire is suddenly terrified. Enjolras never talks like this, never this openly, but here he is, voice so rough and harsh and not _Enjolras_ and Grantaire realizes how bad this all is. 

“Just… rest, okay?” Grantaire replies, his hands brushing the flyaways off of Enjolras’s forehead. 

“He’s not gonna throw up in my car, right?” The driver asks. 

“No, it’s not that kind of sick,” Joly snaps. Enjolras just groans, and Courfeyrac holds him tighter.

“Fuck… fuck,” Enjolras gets out, and his hands are trembling and he’s in so much _pain_ that he doesn’t know what to do. If he shifts, his ribs scream, if he stays still it feels like he’s drowning, and he can’t seem to decide which is worse. 

“How far away are we?” Grantaire asks, as he looks into Enjolras’s wide, terrified eyes. 

“Twenty minutes. But I can make it ten, if you’re okay with cutting a few corners,” their driver says, and Courfeyrac has to stop himself from professing his love for her in front of his boyfriend. 

“Oh my god yes, please, and thank you,” he says instead, vowing to give her a fucking 200% tip tonight. He’s basically holding Enjolras at this point, trying to keep Enjolras calm, but he just keeps making noises of pain. 

“Joly, what the hell happened?” Grantaire asks, trying not to panic. “He wasn’t… he wasn’t like this after the show.” 

“His fever wasn’t going down, but we didn’t want to leave before you got there,” Joly explains. “Fuck we should have taken him right after the show.” 

“One more turn and then we’re at the hospital,” the driver announces, and there’s a lot of scrambling. Unfortunately, it seems like Enjolras has finally realized what’s going on.

“No, I’m fine… I’m fine. I don’ need it,” he says, scrambling to get away from Courfeyrac, who just holds on tighter. It’s then he breaks off into a coughing fit, and he’s barely regained his breath when hands are pulling him out of the car. 

Everything is so loud, so bright, that Enjolras loses track of things. It’s so much, all at once, and he can’t… he can’t...

He blinks, and everything is quiet, blinks again and everything is white. He blinks and there’s something soft under his his head, blinks again and there are voices, too muffled and far away to process. A blink later he realizes his head is on Combeferre’s jacket.

Blinks again and then everything is black.

:: ::

Enjolras wakes up slowly. The first thing he registers is voices. They’re really not trying to be quiet.

“He’s going to fucking kill you for tweeting that, and I’m not gonna stop him.” 

“It’s just a picture. The internet is fucking loving it, though.” 

“Sh, I think he’s waking up.” 

The next thing Enjolras registers is that there’s something on his face, something in his arm. And there’s someone grabbing his hand, rubbing circles gently in the space between his thumb and pointer finger. 

“Come on, E, open those eyes for me.” The voice is so comforting, so gentle, that Enjolras wants to listen to it. 

So he opens his eyes, and everything is a little too blurry, a little too bright, so he blinks a few times, and then he realizes the person holding his hand is Grantaire. 

“Hey, there. Don’t speak, okay? You’re on vocal rest,” he says, a tired smile on his face. Enjolras just frowns; he’s clearly in the hospital, but he has no idea why. As he searches his brain, as fuzzy and muddled and fucking unhelpful as it’s being, he slowly comes back to himself. And his chest hurts. 

“Here.” That’s Combeferre, putting a whiteboard and a red marker into Enjolras’s lap. “Before you ask, it’s about four o’clock in the afternoon, so that means you’ve been here about fifteen hours. You’re on some strong antibiotics and fever reducers, as well as a muscle relaxer, I believe, to make it easier to breathe. You have a severe case of pneumonia, but they drained your lungs last night so you should be okay in a few days.” 

“Released?” Enjolras writes, frowning. He hasn’t totally caught up with everything that’s going on, but the words sound scary enough on their own, and when he strings them together…

“Hopefully tomorrow night. They want to monitor your fever and lungs, at least until the antibiotics really start kicking in,” Grantaire responds. In response, Enjolras just rubs at his chest, the pain growing as he becomes more aware. “Are you in pain?” 

Enjolras just shakes his head, though his face twists when he shifts around to sit up, and Grantaire just puts a hand on his shoulder. He looks to Joly, but Joly is already gone, finding Enjolras’s doctor.

“Show?” Enjolras writes instead, concerned. He needs to know how all the reviews panned out, if they’re going to go the ways of _Tuck Everlasting_. 

“Hmm… Courfeyrac is finishing up rehearsing your understudy right now. You’re out for at least the next five days,” Grantaire comments, but he sees Enjolras’s face sink. “However, after Courfeyrac and I broke the news with some 3 a.m. tweets, your fans have been going crazy. Someone sent the biggest jar of Vicks I’ve ever seen to the theater.” 

Enjolras looks devastated. 

“PHONE,” he writes, and when neither Grantaire or Combeferre move, he underlines it repeatedly. He looks at them, but neither of them budge. Well, if they’re not going to help…

“Oh fuck. Jesus, Enj, just… relax.” That’s Combeferre, when Enjolras bolts upright and moves to stand, until a coughing fit takes hold. Grantaire’s at his side in an instant, a hand at his back. When it’s over, Combeferre helps Enjolras lay back down, frowning. 

“Take it easy. Everything is fine, just… it’s just you need to rest some more before you’ll be well enough to dive back into all of that,” Combeferre explains, beyond relieved when Joly reenters with Enjolras’s doctor. 

Enjolras just circles phone a few times, contemplating throwing the marker at Grantaire when he just shakes his head. 

“Glad to see you awake, Enjolras,” the doctor greets, before he listens to Enjolras’s chest. He frowns a little, pausing when Enjolras starts to cough again. “As I’m sure your friends have explained, you have a pretty nasty case of pneumonia, but we should have you out of the hospital in a day or two and performing again in about a week. Your friend mentioned you were experiencing chest pain; can you rate it on a scale of one to ten?” Enjolras hesitantly holds up six fingers, and after Combeferre gives a knowing cough, Enjolras adds a seventh. “Okay. I’ll get a nurse to give you some more pain medication. Do you have any questions for me right now?” 

“Voice?” Enjolras writes, and Joly steps forward. 

“At least four days without speaking, Enjolras. You, um, you put your voice under some serious strain over the past few days,” he explains, and Enjolras puts his head in his hands. 

He’s fucked up. 

It’s his job to perform, to be there eight times a week and give a good show, and he’s failed. God, this is going to be hell for Feuilly; he can’t imagine what clusterfuck he’s caused his friends, his cast. He knows Ryan is going to kill it but there will be people who bought tickets pitching a fit because they expected him to do his fucking job. 

“Hey. _Hey_ ,” Grantaire says, his arm wrapping around Enjolras’s shoulder. “It’s okay.” 

“Phone,” Enjolras says, surprised at both the pain of vocalization and the hoarse rasp it comes out as. 

“ _Enjolras_ ,” Joly scolds. “When I said full vocal rest, I meant it. If you don’t, it’ll just be longer until you’re able to perform.” 

Enjolras just shakes his head, ignoring the pain when he takes too quick of a breath. 

“Damage control,” he writes on the board, not even looking up to see the nurse inject something into his IV, doesn’t notice her until she’s removing the oxygen mask. 

“Enjolras, there’s nothing to do damage control _for_. Everyone is supporting you. My phone died because I got so many fucking twitter notifications,” Grantaire says, leaning Enjolras into him. “They’re not angry… they’re worried and they want you back, yes, but they mostly want you to get better. People are asking about your favorite tea and sharing their favorite soup recipes and sending your favorite snacks to the theater. Someone got a bootleg of your big second act song opening night, and none of the industry people are even bitching. They’re astounded you did that when you were feeling that awful.” Enjolras doesn’t know if it’s because he was already miserable or because of whatever drugs he’s on, but he feels tears at the corner of his eyes. He shakes his head. 

“Screwed up,” is what he writes, though he tries to erase it before his friends will see it. He doesn’t succeed, though, and then Combeferre is on his other side. 

“Enjolras, I know you feel awful about all of this, but Grantaire is right. Are there a few rich old white ladies bitching on twitter that they bought tickets to see you? Yeah, but there always are. There has been such a huge outpouring of support. People just want you to feel better.” Enjolras thinks he believes Combeferre, and then he pulls out his own phone. “Grantaire did tweet out a picture of you sleeping early this morning, and just so you know he has been answering their questions on your preferences. So when you have enough tea to last a year waiting in your dressing room when you get back, you know who to blame.” 

Enjolras angrily swipes at his eyes, just as Courfeyrac hurries into the room. 

“Sleeping beauty finally deigning the waking world with his presence?” is all he says, before he places a kiss to Enjolras’s forehead, and Combeferre vacates his spot so Courfeyrac can wrap his arms around his friend. “Let’s not do that again, okay?” He brushes the tears off of Enjolras’s cheeks, but his voice is so fucking tender that it makes Enjolras cry harder. That gets a warning grunt from Joly, but Courfeyrac just holds him. He knows Enjolras has had his fair of bad directors and teachers, awful, cruel people who drilled into his head that missing even one show is unacceptable, no matter what it means for his own health. 

“I promise I’m not mad. You’re okay.” Enjolras lets out one sob at that, and then Joly is in front of him. 

“If he can’t calm down, I don’t want him hurting his--” 

“Give me a minute, Joly,” Courfeyrac shoots, before turning to Enjolras, pulling him close. “I know you feel like shit, but it’s just going to hurt more if you stress your voice right now. Everything is taken care of, and everything is okay. See, there we go. You’re doing excellent, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says, when Enjolras starts to get himself under control. He doesn’t let go, doesn’t loosen his grip at all, until Enjolras’s muscles relax. 

“Sorry,” Enjolras writes, unable to look at his friends. Courfeyrac just squeezes his hand. 

“Nothing to be sorry about. You’re sick… that’s out of your control.” That’s Grantaire, now. “How was rehearsal?”

“Okay. He got a lot more comfortable, especially after you worked with him. Thank you for that,” Courfeyrac responds. “He’s just nervous… it’s his Broadway debut, and all.”

“He’ll be fine,” Grantaire says. “Tomorrow’s the day off, so he has time to correct notes before his second performance.” 

Enjolras is frowning, and he moves to write down the multitude of what he wants to say, but it turns out he doesn’t even need to.

“I’ll tell him to break legs, from you. And your apology for short notice of it all,” Courfeyrac says, rolling his eyes. “But enough shop talk. How are you feeling, E?” 

“I’m okay,” Enjolras writes, offering up a small smile. 

“Hmm… you’re either a fucking liar, or the pain meds are kicking in,” Combeferre comments. “Either way, you’re not actually okay.” 

E opens his mouth, narrows his eyes, all tell-tale signs that he’s about to start an argument.

“Jesus. Just get some rest, E. You look exhausted,” Courfeyrac says, before he personally tucks Enjolras back in. Enjolras fights the sinking, tired feeling invading his entire body, but in a few minutes he’s firmly back asleep.

:: ::

He wakes up again to a dark room, and Grantaire is asleep, traces of stage make-up on his face as his head is pillowed against Enjolras’s bed.

Grantaire looks young, curls wild and stuck in place with hairspray that was never washed out. Enjolras feels something warm, something that he feels like he’s known it, whatever it is, just like he knows the street where he grew up. So he squeezes his hand, and Grantaire startles awake, lines of stress and worry and exhaustion creeping back onto his face.

His eyes fall on Enjolras.

Enjolras gives him a smile, a smile that shines with a kind of warmth the stage lights can never be. There’s that look in his eyes, again, and Grantaire thinks that they should talk about that soon. But not now. 

“You’re exhausted. Come sleep with me,” Enjolras mumbles. Grantaire looks like he’s going to protest.

“You’re not supposed to be talking,” he says. Enjolras rolls his eyes.

“If you nap with me, I won’t be talking,” he says, and Grantaire clambers into the small bed. Enjolras curls into him.

“It doesn’t count as a nap if it’s 2 a.m., E.” But Grantaire’s voice is fond, his fingers playing with the sweaty curls. “Now get some rest.”

They fall asleep together, limbs entangled and heartbeats steady.

**Author's Note:**

> Other notes from this au that i probably won't write:  
> ~when e wins a tony, he accidentally says 'i love you' for the first time to r  
> ~e/r doing the last five years together, e swandiving because he's dehydrated and panicking r  
> ~e with appendicitis during a one night only concert + collapsing afterward   
> ~r's big break was Once (imagining him as Guy gives me all the feels), and E saw it 12 times when he was between shows
> 
> Anyway: please, please, please let me know what you think in the comments or @ thoseunheard on tumblr. i will also probably take requests, because i need a new idea to write tbh. Thanks for reading!


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